Chapter 1-2
775 Words
Replacing the phone in its
cradle, Paul dropped his head into his hands. No one seemed to have room. Thommo said he could have his
couch, but Paul was all too aware of the lumps and broken springs.
He’d sat on the uncomfortable piece of furniture often enough when
Thommo invited the guys round for beer and televised
sport.
Paul was no snob. The last
thing he could call himself would be house-proud, but Thommo’s
place was a tip. His last girlfriend had walked out on him six
months earlier, no doubt because she was fed up with cleaning up
after him.
Looking at his watch, Paul
realised it was almost knocking-off time, and he’d got precious
little work done. Putting a couple of executive summaries in his
briefcase, he straightened up his desk and prepared to
leave.
Standing in the corridor
at the exit to the part of the town hall which the public weren’t
given access to, Paul waited his turn to sign out. He heard
Trevor’s annoyingly girlish laughter behind him as he shared a joke
with the girls from the typing pool.
After reaching the head of
the queue, Paul signed his name and his time of departure then
stood to one side. He might as well get his apology to Trevor over
with. Trying to remain calm, he watched as several staff members
signed out, then it was Trevor’s turn. Did he have to wiggle his
hips so childishly as he bent to sign his name? One of the girls
reached out and pinched Trevor’s bum cheek, causing him to squeal
in mock indignation.
“I’ll have you know, my
arse is a woman-free zone.”
“Such a waste,” she
giggled.
The merriment continued
for a few more moments.
Eventually Paul took hold
of himself and spoke. “Uh, Trevor, could I have a quick
word?”
“Sure, sweetie.” Trevor
gave him an uncertain smile.
Paul gritted his teeth,
hoping his discomfort didn’t show. Focussing on a spot just over
Trevor’s left shoulder, he said, “Look, um, about
earlier.”
“Yeah?”
Trevor wasn’t going to
make it easy for him. A small voice in Paul’s head
announced, Why should
he? Paul cleared his throat. “Look, um,
what I said, it wasn’t right. I’m sorry if I hurt your feelings.
Honestly I didn’t mean to, I’ve had a bloody awful day, but that’s
no excuse, and…” Paul ground to a halt.
“That’s okay. I
understand.”
That was the worst of it;
Paul knew Trevor really did understand. “Thanks, uh, I’m not, I
mean, I don’t…” Paul closed his eyes momentarily. “Look, can I buy
you a drink or something, you know, to apologise
properly?”
Trevor’s eyes widened for
a second. “Why, Mr Harrison, I do declare.”
“Uh.” The camped up
impression of Scarlet O’Hara was lost on Paul, who was too busy
panicking to appreciate it. He knew this had been a
mistake.
“So where you taking me? I
don’t need to go home and change into something more suitable, do
I?”
Oh,
God, Paul thought.
In a more normal tone,
Trevor said, “It’s all right, Pauly, I was just pulling your leg. I
really would like to go out for a beer, male bonding and all that
good stuff.”
“Uh, yeah. Um, The King’s
Head all right? They do a pretty decent pint.”
“Okay.”
“You gonna follow me in
your own car?”
“I don’t drive, I get the
bus to work.”
“Oh right.” Paul was
reminded of Sandy’s words, he really didn’t know Trevor. Heck, he
couldn’t say exactly what Trevor did for the Council. He thought it
was something on the top floor, but, other than that, he wasn’t
sure.
Walking through the set of
double doors, protected from the outside with a digital lock to
prevent unauthorised access, Paul followed Trevor into the public
part of the building. The Victorian architects had spared little
expense on the high vaulted ceilings, multicoloured terracotta
tiled walls, opulent lighting that once used to be gas powered, and
intricate ironmongery of the balustrades to the wide staircases.
Looking up at the late afternoon sun shining through the large
stained-glass window at the turn of the stairs, Paul couldn’t help
the small frisson of awe that shivered through him. He liked how
the spinning wheel motif was repeated in the stonework, stained
glass and tiles.
“Obscene example of
municipal profligacy, isn’t it?” Trevor announced, startling Paul
out of his reverie.
Still looking at the
window, Paul said, “You think so? I kinda like it, though I’m no
expert on architecture.”
Trevor growled. “The town
fathers wasted thousands of pounds on this hideous example of
Victorian gothic revivalism, when they should have spent the money
to keep the poor, sick and aged out of the workhouses. After all,
most of them had fed their working lives and health to the monster
that was the woollen textile industry. And it was that industry
which provided the money for all this.”
Paul was surprised at
Trevor’s vehement anti-capitalist outburst. He was more of a
liberal himself, though in truth he wasn’t terribly interested in
politics of any colour.
- Writer
